


Sea Dog Tales

by Guede



Category: Hornblower (TV), Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Framing Story, Genre Savvy, Ghosts, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Revenge, Story within a Story, Storytelling, Teasing, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: New lieutenants Horatio Hornblower and Archie Kennedy arrive in the Caribbean. They've heard some wild stories about the frontier colony, but it's nothing compared to what they actually see.
Relationships: Horatio Hornblower/Archie Kennedy, James Norrington/Bootstrap Bill Turner, Theodore Groves/Will Turner, William Bush/Edrington (Hornblower)





	1. The Third Room

**Author's Note:**

> First four _Hornblower_ installments (except transposed to PotC timeframe) and first PotC movie happened, and then AU after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2005. AU after _The Wrong War_.

“Well, since the pirates haven’t gotten us, I suppose the heat will,” Archie panted. He tugged at the voluminous octopus of linen and lace that the Navy forced upon its officers and thought longingly of the waters over the ship’s side. One detail that hadn’t been exaggerated was the cool, crystalline blue of the Caribbean sea, and on a day like this, it looked like heaven. Pity they were so close to meeting their new commodore, or else he would’ve begged the captain leave to swim.

Horatio h’mmed absently, far too distracted by the sight of the port heaving into view. If he tipped any further over the railing, he’d be having a swim no matter ritual and rank. But he himself was a sight when the wind ruffled his curls and he forgot himself enough to stare wonderingly, so Archie was rather loathe to interrupt. “Amazing. I’ve never seen sand so white.”

“Bleached by the bones of young sailors, and there’s never a place that has more of those than here,” muttered a sailor. A quick look up at the rigging did no good, for there were too many within hearing distance to have said that, and of course they all looked as if they were too busy attending to their duties.

“Quiet. Watch the ropes, and ready yourselves for orders. You lot know how tricky it is to make port.” Captain Groves came striding up the deck to scowl at the men, who murmured and fidgeted but generally gave the impression of acquiescence. He finally stopped beside Horatio to peer at the ocean. “Don’t let the clarity fool you, gentlemen. The sandbars shift with the slightest breeze.”

Archie nibbled on his nail—a habit of his that he’d never quite been able to break. Simpson had been fond of it, else he’d surely have broken Archie of it. “Does that mean the naval charts aren’t to be trusted, sir?”

He sounded over-sharp; Horatio caught himself on a line and glanced over his shoulder at Archie. So did Captain Groves, but before he could speak, Horatio was taking him by the arm. “Sir, I can make out something on that cliff-top. Ruins…? It’d be perfect siting for a shore battery.”

“Oh. That’s one of Port Royal’s most famous landmarks: Dead Man’s Inn. Or it was. You’ve a keen eye, Lieutenant Hornblower. It’s been abandoned nearly as long as I’ve been here,” Groves said. His eye darted once back towards Archie, but better men than him had succumbed to a Horatio wide-eyed and eager for knowledge. As Archie breathed a sigh of relief, Groves warmed up to his tale. “It is a prime spot for siting guns, but even now you’d have to import men from England if you’d want to build there. The locals absolutely refuse to go near it after dark.”

* * *

The cook of the place was employed on the _Dauntless_ for some time, so this is his tale, unadorned by myself. No doubt he exercised less restraint, but it’s the commonly-accepted version.

About twenty years ago, a man named Healy came here and built an inn that he named The Merry Widow. Back then Port Royal was somewhat…less respectable. Pirates and merchants tended to be indistinguishable, and it was widely said that all nation’s flags looked alike in the dark and only gold showed when night fell, though of course we were defending in turns against the depredations of the French and the Spanish. At any rate, Healy hadn’t much patriotic feeling and opened his doors to anyone whose bags hung heavily enough. He was a canny man and picked a site he knew would be popular both for the commanding view and for…if you squint now as we’re coming round, you can see a small inlet. A stream runs down from near the ruins to the shore. The little harbor it forms is hardly large enough for a pinnace, but I’m sure lowlifes such as smugglers required little more.

He dabbled in some trade, but Healy was smart enough to know that the best game was the safe one. So he provided warm rooms, hearty food and the occasional female entertainment, and in return for his blind eyes, coin after coin slid under the table to his hand. I imagine if you dug around the cliff-top, you’d find the skeletons of quite a few men, but not a one of them could ever be laid at Healy’s doorstep in the eyes of the law.

According to the cook, one storming night a stranger blew in to the inn, and despite the kind of colorful traffic the place was used to receiving, the cook distinctly remembered this guest. He was of medium height, compact-built, and he swaggered the way all pirates do but he kept to himself and spoke little; perhaps that was why he was memorable in such a company of braggarts and criminals. His hair and eyes were brown and he had a beard, and his face was not ill to look upon but not particularly outstanding either. The name he scrawled in the register—oh, you’d be surprised the kind of education you can find among pirates, Lieutenant Kennedy—was William Turner. As far as anyone remembers, he was one of a hundred British men that had come seeking fortune and fallen to shady ways in order to make ends meet.

He had some business in the town in the morning, so he ordered himself a room and a good dinner. The room, says the cook, is important. The Merry Widow was one of the largest buildings back then, and it had an upstairs and a downstairs. There were five or six smallish rooms on the ground floor that were let at the cheapest rates, since they were near the tavern-room and naturally Healy wasn’t one to stop the ale flowing very early in the night. Upstairs were three larger rooms and then the innkeeper’s quarters. I’m told that there might also have been a secret room floating about where smugglers and slavers sometimes hid whenever one of the Naval officers made an infrequent inspection, but that’s irrelevant to the story, for William Turner had the third room on the second floor.

Apparently there was something a bit queer about that room before Turner ever arrived, for the innkeeper always filled it last. And he seemed to have made a habit of putting guests with which he’d had a falling-out in there. Nothing was ever said directly, but there were rumors of an unhealthy gust of wind that whistled through the windows, and of difficulty with keeping candles lit. The maid who kept up the inn’s housekeeping disliked attending to that room and often complained of hearing strange things, and of irregular stains beneath the bed. But she liked her pay, and so she put up with it. The cook said she propped the door open till she was done.

William Turner retired early and rose even earlier, stumbling downstairs to the kitchen at the crack of dawn. Healy paid well but worked his servants hard and so the cook was already there beginning on breakfast when Turner burst in and demanded a drink.

This surprised the cook, for Turner had noticeably abstained from imbibing the night before, but he’d seen the most unlikely men be taken by nightmares and shaken hard. That was what he thought was the matter, and so he set out a glass and sat Turner down. But Turner shook him off. While the cook fried biscuits and soaked the salt from strips of pork, Turner hunched over his glass and stared out the window, face white as the flour dusting the counter.

He made the cook nervous and soon the man couldn’t help asking Turner: “Are you all right?”

“To hell with you, and to hell with your damned inn,” was Turner’s less than gracious reply. Then he downed his whiskey as if it were his last drink on earth. He thumped down the glass and exhaled. “Sorry, mate. It’s not your fault. But—tell me something. Anyone strange ever have my room before me? Or anything ever happen in it?”

Strange was commonplace in that sort of establishment, but after a moment, the cook mentioned that he thought he could remember someone. He dug out the guestbook and showed Turner a flourishing signature: Jack Sparrow.

“The man was a pirate and bold as brass about letting everyone know it. He shipped in here two months back with a pack of four friends, flush as a peacock from a good looting. Stole the governor’s own hat the day he got in and lost it at dice right here that very night. He was a brazen one, with more gold in his own teeth than most men see in their lives, and a flaming red coat that looked like hellfire, and black stuff slashed about his eyes like he was some Oriental whore. He did have a look of a woman about him, but when he walked across the room everyone stared no matter who they were. Maybe he was half-devil; he had odd hands, that’s for sure. His fingers…see, the ring ones were longer than the second fingers, and nearly as long as the middle fingers.”

“He knew Healy from a while back, I think, but I don’t know for sure. I’ve only been here four months. Anyhow, he and his friends gambled two nights away waiting for a boat to come in below the cliff, and when it came—they might’ve put the devil to shame with their celebrating here.”

“There was one man with him, name of Barbossa—tall man, streaks of grey in his hair and yellow eyes like a snake’s. He gave me the shakes and I kept clear of him, but he and Jack seemed thick as thieves. They were even sharing a room—your room. And that night when even Healy had had enough, they invited the others up to it to finish their gaming.”

“The next day, all the pirates but Jack Sparrow left, nearly crawling ‘neath the weight of their aching heads. Healy asked after Jack, but Barbossa clapped him on the shoulder and smiled and said he’d slipped out early, but Barbossa would cover his bill. Which was all Healy cared about, so he asked no more.”

When the cook had finished his story, Turner sat back, looking less pale. “Ah. Thanks,” was all he said. He had another drink, and then he turned to the cook again. “You like Healy much?”

The cook didn’t, but like the maid, he liked his pay. “There’s many that don’t. They say he lets evil things happen to even his friends.”

“Well, maybe they’ve gotten themselves a voice. We’ll see,” Turner muttered.

After the sun had risen further, Turner settled his bill and made his way down to the town. He left on a Nassau-bound boat the same day, and the cook more or less forgot about him.

Turner must have done well for himself, for when next he showed up at The Merry Widow, he was sporting considerably nicer clothes and was relaxed enough to mention in passing a sweetheart he was planning to marry. That was six months after, with Healy prospering more and more in the meantime and as far as the cook knows, no attempt at retaliating against him. 

There’d been several successful ventures in the area and so that night the inn was full of guests seeking to sell their ill-gotten goods in Port Royal. Healy and Turner had no quarrel, but the only room left save for Healy’s own room was the third one on the second floor. The cook claims that Turner flinched upon hearing the news, but in the end, the man took it. He also says that Turner mumbled a bit about broken promises, but treated Healy courteously and more or less pretended that he and the cook had never spoken.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened that night. Of course, nowadays the local tale-tellers have embroidered the story with shrieks at the moon and that sort of thing, but if you talk to anyone who’s lived here a while, they’ll tell you those parts only got to be bruited around long after.

In the morning, the inn emptied out pretty promptly except for the third room on the upper floor, the one William Turner had engaged. The maid first knocked, then kicked at the door, for she wanted to get her cleaning done, but there was no answer. So she got Healy who tried the lock with his key, but apparently the door was barricaded somehow from the inside as well and wouldn’t budge. He and the cook finally had to put their shoulders to the door.

When it gave way, the cook nearly fell on top of William Turner. The man was dead—had been dead for hours, for he was stiff and cold. His body was what was blocking the door, and around his neck were the hideous bruises of two hands, as if he’d been strangled in a rage.

Healy tried to keep it quiet but a new governor had just arrived and he was bent on setting Port Royal straight. The case was a perfect opening and he sent marines to rip up that room. Beneath the bed, between floorboards and ceiling planks, they found a half-rotted corpse that had gold in its teeth and scarlet tatters swathing it, and a crushed skull. When Healy couldn’t explain it to their satisfaction, they hung him and that was the end of the inn.

But the most interesting detail, if you can believe it, is that the handprints around William Turner’s neck were curiously unique, with the ring fingers longer than the index ones, and nearly as long as the middle fingers.

* * *

“And do you believe it?” asked Horatio incredulously. He propped a leg up on the rail and grabbed onto Archie’s shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. Then he let go, as if he’d only needed to steady himself.

It wasn’t needed, for Archie had long since recovered himself, but it was appreciated. “Really, a ghost story?”

“I hear you two have made a bit of a name for yourselves in Europe. But that is there, and this is the Caribbean.” Captain Groves looked out over the water, so blue and calm, and folded his hands behind his back. “It’s not the same.”

“The heat, Horatio,” Archie muttered. “Gotten to him.”

There was no way Groves could have overheard, but the way he looked at Archie made Archie think he’d best be more circumspect around the man in the future. “I’ve changed the names, as we’ve since found that Healy had surprising connections in London. No doubt you’ll be able to find out the original ones from the old wives on the wharves.” He caught the flash of surprised understanding in Horatio’s face. “Yes, that was Governor Swann who ordered the investigation, with Commodore—then Captain—Norrington carrying it out. I was a Midshipman then. Helped with the burial, and while I can’t vouch for all of the tale, I can tell you those markings on the throat were real enough.”

The stiff wind netted some of the cold sea-spray and blew it into Archie’s face so he couldn’t help shivering. Beside him, Horatio was studying the cliff-top ruins with a more somber mien.

“Good day, gentlemen. And good luck with your appointment.” Captain Groves nodded to them and they hastily returned the salute.

“You don’t believe him, do you?” Archie said after a moment. He stared at the wind-bleached wood posts jutting at odd angles from the cliff. “Some man sees a ghost of a murdered pirate…promises to avenge him, forgets and then gets killed by the ghost for being faithless? Honestly, Horatio.”

“No, it’s too implausible.” But Horatio was hesitant. “I think.”

And to be honest, so was Archie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “The Fireplace,” by Henry S. Whitehead.


	2. Snake Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2005.

Port Royal was now a town of light and good cheer, with pleasant-faced people bustling in the airy, broad streets. The houses lining the roads were mostly in good repair, built of solid construction and diligently kept up so shutters hung straight and window-glass gleamed nearly as brightly as did the buttons on Horatio and Archie’s dress uniforms. Thick vines seemed to coat every other wall with masses of brilliant, fragrant blooms.

“A sight prettier than London. At least you can breathe here without doubling over from the smell of the sewers.” Once they’d gotten into port, the sunny atmosphere had quickly dispelled the gloom engendered by Captain Groves’ little story and even done some good towards making Archie believe things really would be different here.

The captain had originally planned to show them up to Norrington’s office in the garrison himself, but upon their arrival, a courier had brought news that Norrington had rushed out early that morning and wasn’t due back till late in the evening. Apparently he’d received a tip concerning a possible attack on some heavily-laden merchant ships; the message had also carried orders for Groves to head out immediately to support Norrington. Therefore he had dropped Horatio and Archie on the docks with hasty directions and little more than a by-your-leave. Which of course was his prerogative, but nevertheless his behavior seemed unnecessarily cold.

“It’s not what I’d expected from all the stories,” Horatio replied. He stopped walking and squinted at the scrap of paper Groves had thrust at them just as a cart rumbled towards them.

“Horatio!” Archie seized Horatio’s arm barely in time and yanked him clear. They stumbled into the doorway of a small church, while the carter, after discerning they were all right, favored them with a few choice words.

In response, Horatio offered round a weak grin. “Sorry.”

The carter might be swayed by that, but Archie had seen it too many times to fall victim to it. He pushed open the door and ushered them into the church where the worst Horatio could do was fall over a pew. “Stories. I hope you’re not still thinking about Groves’ ridiculous tale. Every town has their little ghost story, and not a one of them is true.”

“Are you calling one of our commanding officers a liar, Mr. Kennedy?” Horatio set his baggage in one corner and held his paper up to the light coming through one window, but that little piece wasn’t enough to hide his quirked lips.

“Of course not. Groves was very careful not to say whether he fell on the side of lie or truth, after all,” Archie muttered. He leaned against the window-sill.

A shadow detached itself from a narrow corridor and laughed, startling Archie off the sill and Horatio into laying a hand on his sword-hilt. But it held up its hands and came promptly into the light to reveal a lean man of medium height, very near their age, with a handsome and open face. He was dressed as a workman and carried a bag of tools, but his speech hinted at some kind of education. “Will Turner, the blacksmith. Sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing. Were you talking about Groves?”

“Turner?” That had been the name of the man in Groves’ story. A chill passed down Archie’s spine, but he quickly shook it off: that man was dead, and this one was clearly alive.

“Oh, we were told to find you if we needed help.” Horatio put away his paper and extended a hand, which Will gave a good shake. He had also made the connection and it made him nervous, shying away from looking directly at Will. “Lieutenants Horatio Hornblower and Archie Kennedy. We’re…ah…having trouble finding…our lodgings. And Commodore Norrington’s house.”

Will rocked back on the heels of his feet and looked them over carefully, as if studying the lay of an unknown stretch of sea. Then he smiled crookedly and nodded. “Groves told you the story about Dead Man’s Inn. Damn him, but he has the worst sense of humor.”

Archie almost did a jig but for the sake of his dignity, he restrained himself to a smug smile. “One for tall tales, is he?”

For some reason, that made Will laugh again. This time it had a darker twist to it. “Come on. You two look like you could use a drink and a meal first, and then I’ll show you round. As for Theodore, I’ve known him for ages. I could tell you a tale…”

* * *

The howling wind nearly lost Theodore his life, for it billowed into his coat and flung him bodily into a tree trunk. Will pulled him off it a bare heartbeat before the tree-top cracked under the hurricane’s force and came crashing to the ground. That same gust capriciously sent the two men toppling into the mud where the rain relentlessly beat them as they struggled to free themselves from the muck.

“There’s an old church down the path!” Will shouted. If it was still standing, it’d be their best hope for shelter. If they could get to their feet and straggle the remaining few hundred yards.

He dug his elbows into the ground and pushed up with all his strength. The mud was like molasses and didn’t want to release him, but he fought it and clawed at half-sunk tree roots till he’d made it onto his hands and knees. Just as he was about to stand, Theodore shoved him over again.

“Are you—”

_Schnick_. Silver flashed out and instinct froze Will. Then another screaming wind tumbled them over, nearly putting Will on top of a freshly-beheaded snake. Its jaws were still open and its red, red tongue flicked madly about, half-mesmerizing Will.

A crack of thunder brought him to his senses. He scrambled to his feet and pulled at Theodore’s shoulder, and together they just made it to the church before the real brunt of the storm reached them.

Thankfully, the church’s foundations and structure still seemed sound; the wood rafters creaked alarmingly, but Will could see no worrying sway. He slumped against the door and noisily blew out his breath, taking stock of the situation. His hat was gone and his sodden clothes thoroughly worked over with mud, but he still had his sword. If there was any sort of pot in the place, they could pull up some planks and have a fire, but he’d lost what little provisions he’d had with him so there’d be no dinner.

Beside him Theodore looked little better. He still clutched his sword, which he’d had to employ as a kind of walking stick for the last yards, but the scabbard and his wig were long since gone and half the facings from his coat had been ripped clean off. The other half were so shredded that they might as well have suffered the same fate. His laces were wrenched awry and his shirt was pulled out of his trousers so its drenched folds hung almost to his knees.

Will closed his eyes. “Great idea.”

“It would have been if the stream hadn’t been so swollen,” Theodore muttered. He raised a shaking hand to scrape at the mud on his face. “You can’t actually believe we would have done better to go the other way. There were too many pirates!”

“Yes, and if you’d listened longer I would have told you I knew a few. We might have been able to bluff our way through, but no, you Navy types—what?”

“You—” Theodore shook his sword the way a scolding mother did her finger “—have been spending entirely too much time with Sparrow. You even sound like him.”

Navy or not, Will was sorely tempted to demonstrate to the other man that one didn’t need a sword to make a _forceful_ point. But then he looked at the storm raging outside and saw the ridiculousness of the whole argument. “Seems to be the preferred taste of the Navy these days, so you can’t really blame me. Come on.”

“What about your fath—” Theodore began hotly, but he caught himself almost before Will turned around. He had the grace to look meekly shamed. “Sorry, Will.”

“Theodore, I’m wet and tired and I never figured you for wavy hair.” Will nodded at the short kinky strands sticking to Theodore’s face and hid a grin at the other man’s dumbfounded face. “I think we’ve got more important matters to talk about than Norrington and Sparrow. And we are definitely not mentioning my father and Norrington in the same sentence.”

Theodore shut his gaping mouth with an audible click and vigorously nodded, a speculative glint slowly dawning in his eye. When Will turned and resumed his progress down the aisle, it took a moment for the other man to follow. Good. Between the hurricane, his last conversation with Elizabeth and the reappearance of his father, Will had plenty of serious thinking to avoid and he wanted to start at once.

Considering that, it wasn’t a surprise that he didn’t notice her till he had almost stepped on the hem of her dress. “Oh, Chr—I mean, I’m very sorry, ma’am. I—we’re refugees from the storm and we didn’t realize there was anyone else here.”

She was on her knees before the altar—it appeared to be an old Spanish Catholic church—and had her cloak drawn over her head to form a hood. Her sleeves and skirts were also long, so not an inch of her could be seen. But she did turn her head in their direction; Will had the impression of a cold, cold gaze that made his hands reflexively curl to his sword. She, however, seemed to dismiss him and instead nodded at Theodore. “I am praying for my dead husband, but this church is free to all. You may stay until the rain ceases.”

“Thank you, Will warily said. He gingerly walked round her and poked into an alcove, where he found nothing resembling a pot, but did uncover some folded cloths. The church didn’t look as if it’d been all that prosperous to begin with and it’d long since been stripped of its goods, with only a few brass candlesticks and what looked like the workaday altar coverings.

He looked at the woman again, but she’d gone back to praying and either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was…temporarily borrowing sacramental cloths. Something about her rang wrong: the line of her back occasionally shifted in a way he didn’t think was quite human, and her voice had had a strange whispery undertone to it that he didn’t like. But with the storm outside there was hardly anything he could do about it.

Theodore had made his thanks to the woman as well and promptly forgotten about her, striding about in search of a place where the drafts didn’t blow so strongly. He caught Will’s eye and waved him over to a corner near the back of the church, well enough away from the woman so that she wouldn’t be able to see what they were doing unless she got up. “This looks well enough.”

“I found something we can use for a blanket, but it’ll be damp. No place for a fire…” Will blinked.

The other man shrugged innocently and finished stripping off his coat and shirt. He pulled at his boots till they came off with a sucking pop, then tipped them so the water ran out. Beneath the pompous uniform was actually quite a nice body, with flat, well-defined muscles that were streaked over with mud. Theodore had small, girlish-pink nipples that occasionally beaded water and dripped on the floor. “It’s warm enough to do without. We can hang them over the pews to dry,” he said, grinning up at Will.

Another glance at the woman up front showed that she wasn’t paying the least attention. Well, whatever was wrong with her apparently was going to wait. And Theodore did have a point. About the clothes.

Oh, damn it. Or as Jack would have said—should’ve been getting on with it near five minutes ago. Will propped his sword up against the wall by Theodore’s and pulled his shirt over his head, then spread it over the back of the nearest pew. He shivered as a lone finger traced up his back. “Can’t you wait till we get to the floor? There’s her. And it’s a church.”

“I think it’s been a while since this place has been considered holy.” Theodore glanced significantly at the cracked, weathered wood of the benches, then knelt to run a hand along the floor. When he lifted it, the dust he’d wiped off had mixed with the water running over his skin to form a dark, slimy layer. He wrinkled his nose and scraped it off on the bench leg. “And besides, I’ve got precious few days left to enjoy the latitude allowed to young scoundrel lieutenants.”

Will spread one cloth over the planks and then threw the other one over their knees as they sat with their backs to the pew. He smoothed his hand over Theodore’s knee and down to the other man’s lap, brushing the intrigued swelling there before delving beneath the hem. “So it’s for certain? You and Gillette to captain?”

“And Wellard and Knightley to lieutenant, but they’re going back to Europe and we’re being shipped…mmm…” Theodore let his knees fall laxly apart “…pair of babies to toughen up. Damn aristocratic string-pulling—how the devil are we supposed to explain undead pirates? And any of the…oh, yes, that’s it.”

“You and Norrington will think of something,” Will dryly said. If James Norrington could deal with Jack Sparrow and…and Will wasn’t going to think about precisely how his father related to Norrington, but obviously that was complicated as well…then he shouldn’t have too much of a problem introducing new officers to the peculiarities of the Caribbean outpost. If he did—then that was entirely his difficulty, and Will was very thankful not to be responsible for it.

A warm, slightly yielding weight pushed onto his shoulder. Theodore nuzzled at Will’s jaw a bit before rising and delicately working the tip of his tongue around the curves of Will’s ear. He outlined twists and coils that Will hadn’t known his ear possessed. “You know, I was always a bit jealous of Elizabeth,” Theodore murmured. “Damned shame that captains have to be spotless and upstanding, else…”

Will turned his head and caught the other man’s lips in a long kiss.

They were presently quite warm, and surprisingly comfortable beneath the drapes. The storm began to wither away to rain alone, and even that softened from its earlier incessant beat to a lullaby drizzle. Soon Theodore’s head drooped from Will’s shoulder and the temptation to doze looked ever more appealing to Will. But he remembered the woman, and also the mistakes that had nearly cost him his life a few times before, and so before he settled down for a nap he dragged his sword to lie by his hip.

It was impossible to tell how long he’d been asleep, but Will hadn’t missed the warm weight beside him for very long. He knew that because he could see Theodore just walking around the pew. Will opened his mouth to call out to the other man, then shut it because he could hear something. A soft, shivering kind of susurration that was coming from the front. That was cloyingly sweet, that slipped about him and simpered of sleep and darkness…

Will shook it off and silently picked up his sword, crawling after Theodore. He kept low to the ground and directly behind so he couldn’t be seen by whoever was making the sound. That was hardly difficult, for Theodore did not move like an aware man but like one in a dream, his steps heavy and awkward. A slight tap to the back of his knee brought no response, and he continued to move forward.

The air stank. Drenched in the smell of rage—metallic, pungent, never to be forgotten—and of things that shouldn’t walk on the earth. It was so strong that Will wondered at missing it before.

They were moving towards the altar; Will abruptly remembered the woman. He carefully nudged an inch of his sword from its scabbard and held it so the reflection would catch whatever was before them. There were the steps, the altar…the woman, now standing. But she stood higher than any woman had a right to stand, and her clothes fell in an odd slackness to either side of her, as if she were very, very slender. Her arms were raised but no hands were visible, and the hissing sound seemed to come from her. “Yesss, yess, closer. Closer so that I can have my revenge, murderer of my husssband…”

Any further and Theodore would be in range for a strike, though it didn’t look as if the woman carried a weapon. Nevertheless Will took no chances. He rolled onto his feet, then slammed Theodore into the benches to the left and drew his sword in the same motion. A fortunate choice, for the woman recoiled and something flashed out from her sleeves; Will swept his blade around to block and struck solidity.

Two red coals flared beneath the woman’s hood and she screamed, but her scream was that of a gigantic hissing monster. Something red and thin and long flickered out from her hood, and then she rushed Will. He whipped around and sought to slice her across the back, but she was fast as lightning. Faster, for hot pain struck over his cheek and her robes rustled high in the rafters before he knew it.

“Will? What are you doing?” Theodore had caught himself by hooking an arm over a pew-back and now was pulling himself up. He stared wildly, dazedly, as if he’d just woken up.

Above them, the woman was flashing from rafter to rafter with supernatural speed, and all the while she was hissing about murderers and her husband and vengeance. Will grew dizzy trying to whirl around to face her. “The woman! She’s mad—damn it, your sword!”

No fool, Theodore didn’t need to be told twice. He leaped for the corner without looking back. The woman dove after him and Will after her. He jumped onto the pew-backs and ran to keep ahead of his teetering balance on the rotten wood, sword raised to chop at her legs. But from out of nowhere something whipped his foot out from under him and he nearly crashed to the floor. Sheer focused fear kept him from falling all the way. His knee cracked on the bench and his palm on the pew-back, and then he shoved himself up just in time to roll over whatever the woman was swinging around behind her. Will had whirled and his sword had caught it lashing back before he could even think about whether it was a rope or…

…an enormous scaly tail fell to the ground and spouted hot red blood into his eyes. Stumbling and clawing it away, Will scrambled into the aisle. He looked up just in time to see Theodore slash madly at an equally large snake’s head that was rearing out of the woman’s dress. “Jesus Christ.”

“Will! Get her—” The snake lunged and Theodore threw himself aside just in time to avoid her fangs.

She crashed through the planks. The moment she needed to free herself gave Will time to finish hopping benches and get to Theodore’s side.

“Can you get rid of her?” Theodore panted, sword held at the ready.

Will watched the snake rip her head free and lash furious coils to spring away from them. Her baleful red eyes spoke death to him. “I think I could. But it’d take a while and you know, using a sword would be fast—”

“ _Murderers_!” she snarled. And she snapped out her full length, hundreds of pounds of muscle and maddened anger turning her into a living cannonball. Armed with fangs.

Theodore and Will did the sensible thing and each dove in the opposite direction. As soon as he’d landed, Will spun around and cut a long gash down the snake’s side, but that barely slowed her. She had chosen to go after Theodore and now he was barely holding off her fangs with his sword, the effort already having sent him to his knees. He was wheezing and his arms were shaking hard.

Will looked desperately about, spotted a length of splintered wood and scooped it up. He threw it straight at her eye, but a stick wasn’t the same as a balanced dagger and it hit her beneath the jaw. But that was enough for her to slacken. Theodore exploded out from under her, turned and flung his sword so it went straight through her throat.

It stopped the hissed words, but not her attack. She drove for Theodore again and he tripped over the hole she’d made while trying to dodge. “You whoring bitch—” he cursed, clawing himself free too late.

But she ignored Will’s further exploits at her own expense, for he’d kept going towards her after he’d thrown the stick. Now he skidded to a stop, foot braced against her side, and swung with all his force. Her scales smashed his blow but didn’t slow it enough; his sword had gone more than halfway through her neck when one of her coils rammed into him and sent him into the wall. The impact was stunningly painful.

He still forced himself up and was about to take another swing when Theodore called to him. “Will-- _Will_! She’s dead.”

And she was. Her body, only half-uncoiled, was long enough to span the church, and her head, hanging loosely from the thin piece of muscle and skin that still connected it to her body, was as big as a small sheep.

Will staggered to his feet and leaned hard against the wall. Theodore stumbled back till he was slumped beside Will, and for a moment they did nothing but pant for air and stare.

“Next time…” Not enough air. Another breath, and Will tried again. “Next time, we’re chancing the pirates. I don’t care how many of them there are, or what detours you know.”

* * *

“Forgive me if this offends, but that sounds like something out of Revelations. I understand the snakes here grow to prodigious sizes, but…intelligent ones? And shouldn’t you have, ah, noticed her tail before?” Horatio was trying very hard not to sound condescending, but he wasn’t quite managing. He kept tucking his chin into his chest and pulling at his nose.

Not having Horatio’s sense of decorum, Archie snickered and didn’t bother hiding it.

Will shrugged as he knocked on the door. He spoke briefly with the housekeeper, and then stepped back as the door swung open. “Well, I don’t pretend to understand everything, sirs.” A quick smile, and then he was turning into a different corridor. But first he pulled something from his bag and handed it to Horatio. “And this is where my errand differs from yours. But could you do me a favor and return this to Commodore Norrington when you see him?”

“Certainly…” Horatio’s voice trailed off as he first glanced, then stared at what Will had handed him. For what it appeared to be but couldn’t possibly…it was a gigantic fang, set in an elaborately-worked gold handle.

He and Archie made their way into Norrington’s house in edgy silence.

After a while, Archie coughed. “This is going to be interesting, isn’t it?”

“Are you referring to the ghosts or the snake-demon?” Horatio muttered, hand over his face. He dropped the fang on a side-table and rubbed his hand over his coat a few times.

“I’m actually trying to avoid thinking about those. Did it sound to you that Will was censoring himself—not in regards to the snake, but to Captain Groves?” Archie mused.

Something in Archie’s voice made Horatio pinch the bridge of his nose even harder. “ _Archie_.”

“I know, I know, the snake and the ghost are important. But Mr. Turner apparently seems to know how to handle himself around them, so…”

“Never mind those when you’re around,” Horatio sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a Japanese folktale.


	3. Hospitality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2005.

“And here’s where you’ll be.” Will lifted the lantern higher so its pale light would reach the farthest corners of the attic.

It was rather roomier than Horatio had expected, built soundly with a small window facing the sea. An ingenious craftsman had also built a kind of shuttered vent into that wall so air could be let into the stuffy space. A few boxes occupied one corner, but otherwise the only things present was a cot, a pail that Horatio surmised would serve as a chamberpot, and a washbasin.

“If you push your bed over there—” the edge of the light lapped the far wall “—then it’ll be least noisy. I try to get to bed at a decent time, but sometimes rush jobs keep me up.”

“Point taken.” Horatio heaved his chest up onto the floor, then scrambled the rest of the way up the ladder. The ceiling was low enough so that he and Will almost had to bend double, but all in all, he was pleasantly surprised to find such fine lodgings. “Does the…ah…smoke…”

Shaking his head, Will stooped to the other chest of Horatio’s sea-chest. Together they wedged it to the side. “Oh, no, the forge is nearly new. There shouldn’t be any leaks, and if there are, you should tell me immediately.”

A silence fell between them after that. Discussing the workaday details of Horatio’s stay in Will’s attic—watch out for the donkey’s droppings, take water from the pump and not the barrels since those were for forging—had kept them occupied, but those were used up and Horatio couldn’t help but remember earlier. By now he was almost certain Will had been having him on, and while the walrus tusk or whatever that had been had been a nice touch, it irked Horatio to be treated like a gullible midshipman.

On the other hand, if that were true then Will should have been laughing, or at least showing insouciant amusement in his eyes. Instead he seemed to be regarding Horatio quite seriously, and was almost too polite. If he were acting, then he was a fine one.

“So,” Will suddenly said. The shadows and light striped his face like a gaudy native before swirling down his neck. “Did Norrington say much about Tortuga to you?”

Horatio blinked in surprise before he could help it. Cursing himself, he carefully composed his voice. “Pardon?”

“I’m coming, so if you’re worrying about revealing Naval secrets, you needn’t.” Will looked at Horatio as if he were going to say more, but instead he rather abruptly turned around for the ladder. He trailed an odd odor that wasn’t disagreeable but was certainly…well, odd. It seemed to be compounded of charcoal, sea-salt, and something pungent—some sort of herb, perhaps. At any rate, it made Horatio ever-so-slightly dizzy.

No, that was the airlessness of the attic, and the illusion of the walls closing in as Will walked away. He was taking the lantern with him, so Horatio was compelled to follow, which hardly helped Horatio’s irritation.

Nevertheless, it served no purpose to be at odds with the landlord. “In…ah…what capacity are you coming with us?”

Will had already climbed down and now stood steadying the ladder for Horatio. Once again, he seemed to cut off his initial reply in favor of another, probably more diplomatic one. “A go-between of sorts. He’s told you we’re meeting a Captain Jack Sparrow—”

“The pirate,” Horatio said, mustering all his disapproval. Much to his error, as he saw a bare moment later. If Will was acting as a…

…but Will seemed amused instead of offended. “Things aren’t always what they seem. There was a nobleman visiting Jamaica only a few months back…”

* * *

“Well, we are certainly lost now,” Alexander savagely muttered. He slapped at the mud that was slowly drying on his breeches, wishing that he could do the same to that half-cocked drunkard who’d given him directions at the last squalid little town. Or to his valet, who would fall ill in the middle of nowhere so it was up to Alexander to fetch aid from Port Royal.

Beside him, Lieutenant Bush stared far too hard at the foliage. The man was doing a good job of not mentioning how Alexander had lost them both their horses, and of how generally incompetent Alexander was making the British aristocracy and army look, but however sparing he was of Alexander’s dignity, he was still damned annoying. And no, that was not fair, but neither was the utter lack of…of…of any differentiation in this damned stifling jungle. Every mile looked like the last, and so they all were uniformly discouraging.

“It can’t be that large an island. We haven’t left the road, at least, so eventually we’ll have to reach Port Royal.” If they were not eaten by mosquitoes, snakes, or any of the disgustingly over-sized creatures that seemed to thrive on Jamaica.

“We’ve already been walking for two hours, and when I ran into you, I was only five away, so we shouldn’t have that much farther to go,” Bush concurred. For a naval officer, he was being remarkably diplomatic.

Alexander bit down his urge to lash out long enough to nod tightly, then started walking again. They both knew that, with the sky the color of pitch, it wasn’t likely they’d make Port Royal for the night, but damned if Alexander was going to give up just yet. There had to at least be a shack, or a fallen tree, or _something_ that would do as a crude shelter. God knew what was lurking in these—

Bush coughed. “Excuse me, my lord, but—”

“Hello, gentlemen,” said a low, rich, undoubtedly feminine voice. It belonged to a shapely figure that seemed to have wandered out of a gilt painting. She wore a veiled hat, but the hair that streamed out from behind it soaked up what little light there was and glowed golden, and it looked as if she wore the veil for protection from insects rather than because of any deformity. What much of her features were visible was exquisite. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was taking my nightly walk and I couldn’t help overhear your conversation. I live just down the road and I’d be happy to give you a night’s lodgings.”

“Oh.” Well. This certainly was a nice surprise. “That’s very kind of you…”

She made a slight curtsey, her skirts swirling around a pair of pretty ankles. “Maria West, sirs. My husband owns the land around here, but he’s gone on business for the night. It’d be no trouble at all to put you up.”

Transplanted gentry, judging by her accent. And, if Alexander wasn’t quite wrong, _interested_ gentry. He smiled and offered her his arm. “Far be it for me to refuse such a beautiful lady.”

“And your friend?” she trilled, turning to Bush.

Who had a strange look on his face. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, which should have been casual enough but for the way he positively shied from the woman. He caught Alexander’s eye and seemed to be communicating something, but whatever he meant was completely lost on Alexander.

After a moment, he coughed and bashfully ducked his head. “Oh, no, ma’am. We’re merely travelers who fell in together on the road.”

“Well, my invitation extends to you all the same.” A seductive smile glimmered from behind the veil.

His mood much improved, Alexander nodded his agreement. “There’s hardly going to be a better offer, and I cannot possibly let you go on by yourself at this time of night.”

“It is late,” Bush said, giving Maria a sharp look. He reluctantly began to follow.

* * *

Horatio snorted quietly at his drink. “A more sensible reaction to a woman wandering outside by herself.”

A smile came and went on Will’s face, and for the first time, it seemed to be free of whatever thought was…was restraining him. That was it. The other man’s behavior was peculiarly circumscribed around Horatio, and it went far beyond the occasional nervousness civilians had around military officers. Certainly it wasn’t something to be expected from a man who appeared better-informed as to the Commodore’s plans than his own officers were.

It was very curious, and Horatio made a note to himself to keep a closer eye on his host. In the spirit of that vow, he forced himself to look more interested in what he suspected was simply another monster tale. “So I suppose the lord and the lieutenant went to this lady’s house and found it a wreck?”

“Oh, no. Actually, they found a veritable palace,” Will said. He was done with his drink and now drew idle circles around the rim with his fingertip. Sometimes the light of the candle would throw a glimpse of a long scar across his palm. “She wined and dined them.”

* * *

“Amazing. I was fully prepared to make allowances for a colonial outpost, but she sets a table as fine as any household in England,” Alexander marveled.

They were in a small study, taking brandy; Maria had been with them long enough to pour and sip a little, but had left to see to something. Or rather, Alexander was. Though their hostess had exerted all of her sparkling wit, Bush still hadn’t lost any of his uneasiness. At dinner he had failed to eat or drink, and now he stood straight by the window, staring into the night. Every so often, his feet would twitch as if he wished he were pacing.

Alexander checked the clock on the mantel, then looked at what remained in his glass. It was good, but he supposed he had to leave it. “Well, then. Do you suppose we’re to be robbed and murdered, or murdered and robbed?”

Bush startled into a turn. “My lord?”

“I am not, however it appears, completely unversed in the ways of footpads and other examples of human scum. Though I am partial a good meal, a good pair of breasts, and a good brandy.” If it was to be a robbery, they were sadly inexperienced at such matters. Maria had eaten the same food as they had, and had poured all the glasses from the same decanter, which precluded drugging. More importantly, she hadn’t seen fit to take away their swords.

After a moment, Bush ducked his head and stepped away from the window. He was visibly reassessing Alexander. “Actually, I think we’re quite alone in the house.”

“True. I haven’t heard anyone else, and no one can train servants that well.” In fact, it had become unnervingly quiet. Even the sounds of the night outside had died away, leaving nothing but their voices. Alexander got to his feet and loosened his sword in its scabbard. “Shall we?”

Being a consistent man, Bush silently assented. They took a candle from the mantel and Bush opened the door for Alexander, then followed him into the dark hall. It was an opulent house, tastefully and expensively decorated, and that had been one of the first clues. While some colonial landowners did turn a sufficient profit, generally they lacked the refined taste to use it to good effect unless they’d the breeding. And if Mrs. West did have the breeding, it certainly wasn’t of any lineage of which Alexander knew.

The hallway was empty and extraordinarily long. From what Alexander remembered of the house’s outside appearance, it shouldn’t be nearly so much so…

“My lord?” In the candlelight, Bush’s hair had turned from a nondescript gray-brown to sable touched with red, and the graceful line of his jaw was suddenly quite apparent. Damn the horses for not letting Alexander notice sooner. “I should mention something. I’ve been in this region for some time, and you should know—”

Something shuffled at the far end of the hall, interrupting Bush. Alexander turned with hand on hilt and lifted his candle. The light pooled over a Turkish rug, then the tassels at the edges that were sumptuously thick, and then…

“Inside!” Bush shouted, shoving them back into the room. He literally plowed into Alexander with his shoulder, knocking the breath out and nearly causing the candle to drop. Then he whirled and kicked the door shut just as something heavy slammed against it. The door bounced a few inches open and—and an enormous _paw_ crashed through.

Bush swore and threw himself against the door. On the other side rose a horrendous yowling, which finally snapped Alexander out of his shock. He dropped the candleholder on the table with the brandy and seized the nearest piece of furniture—a chair—to wedge beneath the doorknob.

The paw was still flexing and jerking with such force that Bush was nearly thrown to his knees several times. Alexander heaved the chair the last few inches, then nodded to Bush. The other man promptly lessened pressure on the door; the paw was swiftly withdrawn and then together they barricaded the door before whatever was on the other side could try again.

Very, very slowly, the two men backed away. The creature snarled and threw itself against the door, but the chair and lock seemed to be holding. “Well, I see our host has returned to see us to our rest,” Alexander gasped, only now realizing how out of breath he was. “You were saying?”

“What?” Apparently, Bush had been expecting Alexander to faint or babble denials or some such nonsense, and was utterly stunned upon not receiving that reaction. “Oh. Ah.” He started to clear his throat but was surprised into choking when their host dragged screeching claws down wood. “The Caribbean’s known for its eccentricities of nature.”

Ah. Yes, of course it was. What a wonderful way of putting it. Alexander drew his sword and eyed the door; it would do for a little while longer, but already one of the hinges was coming loose. A great seam opened up along one of the panels, and behind it glinted ferocious claws. “Have any ideas for handling this particular one?” 

Bush looked morose but determined. He also drew his sword. “There are ways, but personally I only know this one.”

“Then I do hope it’s of a mortal nature.” And that was all that Alexander had to say before the door burst inwards.

He threw up an arm to block the splinters coming at his eyes and promptly backstepped, but the thing was devilishly fast. Alexander swore and ducked as it shot past his shoulder. Something caught his collar and a spark of pain cut across his neck, but it wasn’t much worse than a shaving-cut and it hardly affected his sword-swing. The tip of his blade snagged something, then tore free in a small welter of blood. The creature yowled hideously and landed in a heap in the corner, but swiftly regained its feet.

It was feline, but of no species he’d ever seen, either in zoos or in person. The beast was as large as an underfed cow and rippling with muscles beneath its thick coat of fur, which shone eerily in the dark room. Its eyes were like two coals smoldering with hatred, and its head was shaped with a malevolent intelligence, more like that of a gargoyle than of a cat. Each of its claws would easily equal a dagger in length and deadliness.

“My lord?” Bush panted. His sword was also tipped with blood, and his coat had been half-torn from one side of his body. He was shaking a little, and took a step backward towards the table.

“Oh, I think we might use Christian names in this situation.” They’d been very fortunate with their first strikes, Alexander suddenly realized. The creature could learn, and indeed was with how it regarded them, and it would not make the same mistakes with its next strike. Then they’d be hard-pressed to meet it, for its strength and speed was clearly beyond them.

Bush seemed to realize the same thing. His face hardened and he looked at Alexander with the kind of courage usually only seen in last defenders under siege. “Alexander-- _run_!”

And then he swept the candle and the brandy decanter off the table, directly in the path of the leaping beast. As if time had slowed, Alexander saw the top of the decanter fall and the brandy stream out in a glittering line parallel to the arc of the candle-flame. Then they crossed, ignited, and suddenly the world was afire, and in the middle of it was a shrieking, flaming monster.

Something seized Alexander’s elbow and dragged him towards the door. He stumbled, then caught himself and rushed after the other man. They pounded down the halls while behind them, the beast wailed and crashed about the house.

The moment they made it outside, everything suddenly collapsed. It was so close that a piece of woodwork caught Alexander on the elbow. Naturally, they did the sensible thing and continued till they were a safe distance away before they risked turning around.

There was nothing. That was, there were no fiery ruins—not even a stick standing, and even from where he stood, Alexander could see that it had been a good time since a building had occupied that ground. There was a bare area, but its edges were already being eaten away by the jungle.

Bush hastily choked down a surprised oath. He rubbed a hand over his brow, then under his chin. “All an illusion, then. None of it was real. That happens sometimes.”

“Which I’m sure will reassure my stomach, William. Dear God, then what _was_ sup—never mind.” Better not to think about it. Besides, Alexander wasn’t dropping dead on the spot, so he wagered that they had more important worries. Such as the fact that they were, once again, lacking shelter and direction.

* * *

Horatio stifled a triumphant smile. “It’s very convenient how all these stories seem to take place in ruins so old that it’d be impossible to verify the facts.”

For a moment, he thought he’d gone too far because Will’s jaw suddenly tightened. The other man started to push away from the table, but by the time Horatio managed to lift an apologetic hand, Will was already sitting down. He reset his mouth into a slightly less friendly line. “Let me know when you’ve first got shore leave and I’ll take you to the setting of this story. It is only two hours’ walk from here, or about an hour’s ride.”

Thankfully, it was fairly dim even with the candle. “I…ah…can’t ride.”

A small flash of sympathy appeared in Will’s face. He shrugged. “Well, I probably couldn’t borrow the horses anyway. It’s not a bad walk in the daytime, though it can be uncomfortable at night.”

* * *

“Thank God for civilization,” Alexander muttered under his breath. He jerked his chin at the footman who’d come running. “Please announce to the Governor that the Earl of Edrington and—”

He turned around and surprised William in the act of quietly sneaking off. If the man hadn’t been a Naval officer, Alexander certainly would’ve snapped him up for a manservant. Understated, commonsensical, and competent no matter what the situation. And he did have a fine back. “Lieutenant Bush! After tonight, you deserve better than a wharfside inn.”

Before the other man could finish protesting, Alexander had taken him by the arm and dragged him up the steps to the Governor’s house.

“My lord, I couldn’t—”

“No, no, you’re staying. You’d do me a great—favor, if you did.” Alexander slightly dropped his voice on ‘favor’. ‘Honor’ would have been the more appropriate word, but it wouldn’t produce nearly as pleasant results.

Well, Alexander hoped. It’d been a trying night, and he had a moment’s fear that he’d read the man wrong.

But then William’s solemn face cracked in a smile, and _something_ intriguing gleamed in his eye. “That’s very kind of you, my lord.”

Of course, a man who could take a demon in stride had to have hidden depths…and Alexander was looking very forward to plumbing them. He released William to the care of the servants and then resigned himself to seeing to the formalities.

Thankfully, the Governor seemed as anxious to return to his bed as Alexander was to find his, and that took no time at all. Alexander stopped in his room long enough to freshen up, then wandered down the hall, occasionally redirecting a servant out of the way, till he found the right door. He walked in, then paused.

William froze. He’d been in the act of taking off his shirt; it had left his head and torso and was now rumpled up around his arms.

“I’d apologize for startling you, but I’m inclined to believe that’s far more difficult to do.” Lock the door, make sure that coat-tails are not stuck in it…just for good measure, Alexander shed his coat and tossed it over a chair. “How’d you know about Maria West?”

“I could ask the same of you,” William replied. He finished removing his shirt and watched Alexander saunter the rest of the way across the room with a certain wariness.

Alexander shrugged and began dealing with his—too damned many for this climate—clothes. He purposely fumbled his buttons and laces, secretly urging William to hurry up. “I didn’t. But I hadn’t noticed any signs of farming along the way, and no normal woman would be out alone that late in that sort of country.”

Apparently William’s caution extended into every aspect of his life, for he didn’t lift his hands towards Alexander’s shirt till Alexander had damn near ripped it to shreds in frustration. His fingers were deft and warm, and were gradually leading the rest of him into eager participation. “I’ve been here awhile, and she…was not exactly the first of her kind that I’ve seen. I talked to a servant—it seems that there really was a couple named West who had a farm there. The husband was a violent, jealous man and kept his wife isolated from nearly everyone, with nothing but a cat on which she doted as if it were a child. Eventually he killed her in a fit and the cat disappeared. Shortly afterward, he remarried a beautiful, mysterious woman with long silky hair.”

“Ah. Our murderous hostess.” Since they were about even in terms of remaining clothing, Alexander decided to do something about William’s belt. He laid his hands on William’s waist and the other man stiffened. Alexander considered that for a moment. “I give you my word that you’ll suffer no repercussions from this, no matter the result.”

“That’s very appreciated,” William quietly replied. He sucked in a breath, hesitating a moment longer. Then he pulled at Alexander, and then they were so closely-pressed together that hardly a hair could fit between them.

Finally, something about this damned trip was turning out right.

* * *

“…and a few weeks after their marriage, the second wife slaughtered her husband and all the servants and then vanished. Supposedly she was the first wife’s cat, come back to revenge her, but she also appears to unwary travelers to lead them to their deaths,” Will finished.

It was hard to know how to respond to that, but at last Horatio settled on noncommittal. “An interesting story. If you could spare the time, I’d like to see the place, but right now I’m afraid I have to turn in. Oh, and Archie’s supposed to stop by tomorrow, but he doesn’t quite know where this place is…”

“I’ll keep an eye out for him.” Will stood as well, but instead of accompanying Horatio to the ladder, he merely handed Horatio the lantern. At Horatio’s questioning look, he made a little dismissive gesture with his hands. “I’m going out to bring in some more coal and firewood. I have a good deal of work for the morrow.”

“Ah.” Something witty or at least gracious should have followed that, but Horatio never had been any good at such things. He always stood too long and never spoke soon enough—like he was doing now, rudely throwing the lantern’s glare in Will’s eyes and shuffling his feet. “I—”

“Pleasant dreams,” Will said. He turned and exited with an enviable casualness.

Horatio thought about calling after him, but dismissed the idea. Partly because he’d still have no notion as to what to say, and so he was better off climbing the ladder.

* * *

“Will?”

“Right here,” Will sighed. He dug around till he’d found his pouch, then took out his string of bone-beads from it. Counting them, feeling the carvings beneath his thumb and finger, helped give his temper something to do instead of exploding.

Norrington took his time getting from the end of the alley to where Will was, though the reason for that was apparent enough.

“Will,” Bootstrap awkwardly greeted. He darted a look at Will, dropped his eyes, then raised them to stare again. “It’s…good to see you again.”

“You look well. No injuries from your trip, I take it?” No, it wasn’t proper to use that sort of grating voice with one’s father, but then again, Will was fairly sure that it wasn’t proper for one’s father to come smelling of sex with one’s commodore. He stepped back into a small draft that’d carry away the scent.

Bootstrap not only noticed but understood. His expression was equal parts defensive, angry, and wistful, but he thankfully chose to give Will some much-needed space. Perhaps so long under the sea had addled parts of his mind, but he wasn’t a fool.

Norrington didn’t look happy about that. “Will…”

“Look, I agreed to help ease your baby officers into this, not to play preacher to them. It is not my responsibility to convince them that I’m not some poor, pathetic crazy bachelor who runs on about nonsense,” Will snapped. “I don’t have time for this anyway. I’m supposed to—”

“ _Will_. I don’t expect you to train them. I expect you to help, as we agreed. This is an irregular arrangement, but it’s vital to ensuring the survival of us and of Port Royal.” When Norrington put his back into it, he could shut up a hurricane with a few choice words. Or make Will feel like a misbehaving little boy again. “I apologize that they’re being…difficult, but please remember that the burden lies on all our backs.”

Will opened his mouth to answer, but the breeze suddenly reversed and he smelled…Christ. God damn it, he was happy his father was alive, but the man could have _possibly_ given Will notice about that before he’d walked in on him and Norrington.

Speaking of, the commodore was watching Will with a strange desperation. His shoulders abruptly slumped, and he even went so far as to touch at his temple as if his head ached. Behind his shoulder, Bootstrap gave Norrington a concerned look that happened to cross paths with Will’s eyes. Will’s father hunched, but made no effort to deny his worry.

Suddenly Will missed Elizabeth, for when she’d left so had left the only person in Port Royal who’d give him the same look. And, grudgingly, he understood. “All right, I won’t let them get eaten by a sea serpent. But honestly, were they the best you could do? They’re awfully young…”

“They’re the same age as you, and as I when I came over here,” Norrington said with some amusement. “If that’s settled, then I advise we get on with tonight’s work. I don’t want to miss the meeting with Jack.”

Will carefully ignored how Norrington stumbled over those last words and how his father stiffened like an irritated cat. He was going to do his job, and that was all. Everyone else could see to the rest themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a Japanese folktale.


	4. Of Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2005.

It was a moonless night and, unusually for the Caribbean, the wind riffling Horatio’s uniform was quite chilly. But he had charge of the watch, and it was too late to nip down for his cloak. He supposed he could ask one of the men to retrieve it for him, but that seemed a petty usage of the skeleton crew with which he’d been left to watch the ship.

They stood well away from Tortuga, which even with the presence of two Naval ships in her harbor had lost none of her raucous chaos. The town was a glowing orange spot on the shore, its shacks flickering out of the dark like so many crooked teeth that chomped up the bawds who occasionally screamed into the uncaring night.

Horatio shook himself hard. Perhaps it was an atmospheric place, but that was no reason to let Turner’s ridiculous stories rattle his nerves. So far, Tortuga didn’t appear to be any more or any less than a town where the worst of _man_ had dug itself in deep, and no supernatural monsters were needed for explanation.

He did wonder how the meeting ashore had gone. Commodore Norrington had taken off with what Horatio considered an absurdly small party, and that had been before the boat had come back to show that most of those men had only been rowers. The only ones that had disembarked had been Norrington, two marines, and Archie. No doubt the marines, who’d been tall, well-made men, could handle themselves. Norrington was rather renowned for his swordsmanship, and Horatio knew Archie could hold his own. But nevertheless, Horatio would rather had been with them than guarding the ship. Captains Gillette and Groves were still at their posts, so it wasn’t as if _two_ junior lieutenants would have been missed much.

That was, before Groves had taken a party off to the north of Tortuga for some mission of his own, and Gillette had been left in command of both ships. A very dangerous stretching of resources, Horatio thought.

“Sir?” When Horatio turned, a dark shape tentatively became one of the sailors. Earlier he’d been among the most boastful and mischievous of the men skylarking in the rigging, which made his present fearful demeanor rather odd. “Begging your pardon, but Mr. Turner’s come aboard. He’d like to see you.”

Had he? Admittedly, Horatio hadn’t been listening carefully, but the sound of a boat being lifted up to deck, or even the smaller commotion of lowering a rope ladder should have been apparent enough. He looked around, but saw nothing to mark such an event—only a new dark shape standing near the wheel. “Very well. Thank you,” Horatio curtly said.

It was unfair to the man, but he didn’t seem to take any offense. Instead he seemed almost grateful at the dismissal, and quickly disappeared belowdecks.

Horatio crossed to the newcomer, straining to make out Will’s form. He had some difficult, however, since like the crew, Will seemed to have developed a queer shyness for the light and hung well away from the lanternlight. “Turner—oh. Who—who the devil are you?”

“You don’t need to do that,” said the stranger, nodding towards the hand Horatio had laid on his sword hilt. He was only slightly taller than Will, but was much thinner—gaunt, like a scarecrow. When a stripe of light did catch him across the face, the bones leapt out and for a moment, Horatio almost thought he was looking at a skull.

He was not; the man had been quite handsome once and still was, in the same eerie way that an English moor could be. After some wary staring, Horatio also detected an uncanny resemblance to Will, though this man was at least twenty years older and looked to have suffered for it.

“You thought I was my son.” The man made an abrupt motion with his hand. “Will. You thought I was Will.”

“Er…yes, I suppose I did. He didn’t mention his father was…” Well, he hadn’t mentioned his father at all.

“Bootstrap.” After a moment, the man pointed to himself and Horatio realized that that had been an introduction. Bootstrap Turner didn’t seem surprised at the welcome he’d got, or much of any other emotion except possibly sadness. He looked at Horatio with unnervingly clear eyes. “Is Norrington still ashore?”

Horatio’s palm felt clammy against the steel of his hilt. He let go and rubbed his hand against his coat, but the unpleasant damp feeling still lingered, and moreover, he had the curious impression that it was emanating from the other man. “He is…”

“He is,” a third voice said lowly, and Will stepped out of nowhere. He was wringing water from his hair, but the _plink_ of drops he shook onto the deck was actually rather reassuring. They fell and soaked into the wood like water should, and did not cling in a suffocating haze as…no, it was nothing.

Bootstrap became more lively at the sight of Will, his hands moving with less of that eerie grace and his eyes warming, but the two men didn’t rush into any greeting. Actually, Will looked as if he’d rather his father would disappear.

“All right,” Bootstrap said after a long pause. He stared at Will a little longer before turning slowly and heading for the captain’s cabin. His shoulders slumped.

A flash of regret passed over Will’s face, but he hid it quickly from Horatio. “How goes it?”

“Your father’s also working for the Commodore?” Horatio asked.

Will twitched; such an arrangement didn’t sit well with him. But he answered calmly enough. “After a fashion. Norrington’s almost done. He’ll be back here in a quarter-hour, and then after that Jack Sparrow’s _Black Pearl_ will be accompanying us.” He pointed towards the direction in which Groves had gone. “She’s anchored around the spit.”

“Oh. I’ll inform Captain Gillette. He’s on—”

But Will was waving him quiet. There was no change that Horatio could see, but the other man had gone tense and still, head cocked towards the water.

Curiously enough, the same was true of the other sailors on deck, though after a few moments of observation, Horatio concluded that they were merely following Will’s lead. Turner obviously was well-known to the men, and they seemed to hold him in a strained sort of awe; they joked familiarly with him, but always held their distance. It was something to remember—a mere citizen shouldn’t have such influence over the crew. And it was quite puzzling that Will could have obtained such power in the first place, no matter what sort of hold he had over Norrington. Certainly then it should be limited to Norrington himself—who did not seem the type to stand for such circumstances—yet even Captain Gillette, who was too priggishly rational even for Horatio, steered clear of Will.

“No, I’ll go,” Will abruptly said. He flicked out his sleeve so a curve of water splattered the deck. “I’m wet anyway, and it’d take time to get a boat crew together.”

Horatio looked down at the deck, debating his options, and then stepped up so he could speak to Will without the words carrying. “Turner, the offer’s appreciated, but it’s my duty to keep my superior officer informed. It’s chilly anyway. If you go below, I’m certain we can find you a blanket and a hot drink somewhere—”

The groan boomed over the water. It was low, grinding, and distinctly inhuman. Up in the rigging, someone modified the Lord’s Prayer to include profanity in every other line, and Horatio himself shivered.

Will, however, was not unnerved so much as thrown into action. He rummaged quickly through his pockets and produced a long string of beads, which in the dark Horatio at first took for a rosary. But the larger objects hanging off of it were not crosses, even if Will was thumbing them and the beads through his fingers as a Catholic would. “I don’t think you want me to go below,” he said.

“Why not?” The words came out sharply; Horatio barely kept himself from wrapping his arms around himself. Whatever was going on, it’d do no good for the men to see that even their officers were frightened, and certainly not with the cool example Will was setting up.

It was very black, but Horatio still received the impression that Will was giving him a contemptuous look. Another groan echoed over the water, and Will’s fingers sped up their manipulations till their clicking was defiantly audible over the weird noise. “Am you going to believe me if I tell you it’s something besides a weak beam in your hull?”

At the moment, Horatio wasn’t entirely sure. If he was ashore, or if it was daylight—or even if Captain Gillette had decided to command from this ship instead of leaving Horatio alone, then he would have had no difficulty in denying any…unusual explanations. But it was dark and chilly, and this was the hour at which men’s morale was the weakest. Which was a perfectly rational explanation for why he was suddenly eager to hear Will’s story. “What would you tell me?”

“Tortuga’s always been against the Navy. Think about it—hundreds and hundreds of vagabonds and pirates and mercenaries have passed through this port. Died here, some born here, all of them spending fast and hot part of their life on those sands, and all of them with a deep, deep hatred of the Royal Navy in their blood,” Will muttered. His fingers suddenly snapped, wrapping a loop of the beads around his hands. Horatio startled and Will looked up at him, stare closely examining him. “The simplest way to put it is that we’re not _wanted_ here.”

Something about that statement struck Horatio: Will’s identification with the Navy. Horatio found that surprisingly relieving, for while he found Turner odd and possibly dangerous, he couldn’t fault the man’s personality. And additionally he was also dependent on Turner for room and board.

“Will,” said someone behind them.

They both jumped. Horatio recovered first and hastily steadied his sword, facing Bootstrap. “Mr. Turner! Sir, if you’d please—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Bootstrap said. He ignored Horatio entirely and spoke to Will, who now that he was over the first shock, was regarding his father with an expressionless face. “I’ll do it.”

He waited a moment later, but upon receiving no sign from Will, he walked heavily to the railing, over which he soundlessly climbed. As much as Horatio tried, he could detect no sound of a splash at the proper time. Will watched it all in silence, fingers still on his string of beads.

“So what’s the tale there?” Horatio asked. He cocked a brow at the dissembling look that had begun to creep upon Will’s face.

“Tale? You think these are all stories? Maybe I should ask what’s the nature of your friendship with Lieutenant Kennedy,” Will sharply retorted. He turned away on the tail of his last words so they were nearly lost to Horatio.

They stung deeply nonetheless, though Horatio could partially console himself with the thought that he must have touched on a nerve. However, he was not of a mind to leave matters in such strained relation. “Will? I…apologize, but you have to understand, I find it very difficult to believe—”

“If you don’t believe in what I tell you, then you can at least believe in human nature. It’s all the same, after all, whether we’re speaking of the living or the…not.” Will sighed, then folded up his beads and stowed them in whatever pocket from which they’d come. The air freshened a little, and then a little more, and suddenly the oppressive atmosphere that had engulfed them was gone. “You’re not a religious man, are you?”

“Not…particularly.” A careful reply for what appeared to be a careless question, but Horatio was sure that the prudent thing to do would be to walk lightly around Will Turner. Walk lightly, listen well, and wait for a chance. To do what, Horatio hadn’t quite determined, but he would have to do something. Things were under too much strain to continue as they were.

“That might do you some good. Good night, Lieutenant. I’ll see to my father,” Will said, walking away.

Over the water, Horatio thought he spied a pinprick of light. He squinted harder and as he did, a soft cry came up from the rigging. “The signal!”

Norrington and Archie would be back in short measure. Weight off his shoulders, Horatio strode forward to order a boat lowered and for the time being, forgot about strange feelings in the night.


	5. A Word to the Wise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2005.

Horatio looked up at the approaching footsteps, squinting against the sun. When he’d made out who was coming up the path, he smiled and made room for Archie. Plenty of it, for Archie never could merely sit, but instead had to sprawl over slightly more space than was ever available.

“Thank God for that seagull. I think if I’d had to work a full day today, I would have simply had to fake a drowning,” Archie said, flopping down. His knee banged into Horatio’s leg and he began to apologize, but stopped after Horatio had looked at him. He tapped at the book Horatio had been reading. “Catching up on your…no. Well, that’s certainly an interesting choice of reading material.”

“Especially with this sunny weather. I suppose you should read this sort of stuff when a storm is battering at your window and your candle is near to guttering out.” A bit embarrassed, Horatio snapped the book shut and put it down. He could feel the burn in his cheeks and his self-consciousness about it was beginning to be unbearable, so he sought to steer the conversation in other directions. “I found it tucked in one of Will’s cabinets behind some bowls, and thought it might help explain his odd habits.”

Archie’s eyebrow rose. He rolled over and raised himself on his elbows. “Why, Lieutenant Hornblower, do I detect a hint of exasperation in your voice?”

“Now, Archie…” Horatio began, but as it was obvious he was pursuing a lost cause, he gave it up. He slid the book behind himself in hopes that the principle of out of sight, out of mind would come to his aid. “Mr. Turner is clearly a well-respected and well-liked citizen of Port Royal, and he’s certainly a fair landlord. He’s a good man.”

“Before dark, anyway?” Whatever Horatio’s expression was, it made Archie drop back laughing. His hand slid back to stroke lightly along Horatio’s thigh. When Horatio jumped, it only pressed more firmly.

Horatio darted glances all around them, but it seemed that this little hollow was still safe from passersby.

“Oh, so he believes in ghosts and monsters. I’m almost inclined to agree.” Both Archie’s face and voice sobered, and his hand was now lying against Horatio’s leg more for comfort than for teasing. “There’s something very odd about this region. Very odd.”

“Oh, no, Archie,” Horatio moaned. “Not you as well.”

“No, hear me out. Remember that strange little trip we had to Tortuga? Well, while I was ashore…”

* * *

Though the air was its usual sweltering self, Archie could detect a strange hint of cold in it. He put one arm around himself, then remembered the men looking to him and hastily turned it into a tug at his coat. Then he glanced behind him, but curiously enough, the few looks he received were sympathetic. Generally the men were unforgiving of any signs of weakness in their officers.

Generally they took every chance they could to look up and stare about, but now they kept their eyes fixed to their boots when they weren’t staring nervously at the window.

The door opened rather suddenly and they all sprang to attention, one hand rising to their faces and the other tight on their swords or muskets. Commodore Norrington, accompanied by two redcoats and a man dressed in somber civilian clothes, walked into the room and returned their hasty salute. “Back to your positions,” he said quietly but firmly.

He alone didn’t seem to be affected by the atmosphere…or perhaps he was merely having an unusual reaction. Certainly fear did not have him, but some worry shaded his face, as did a dark sort of humor. He marked the way the men were in an instant and gave them a tight, wry smile. “It’s the new moon, men. You need have no fear.”

It was a peculiar thing to say, but the men instantly relaxed. Some looked sheepish, as if they should have realized it themselves, but most simply looked grateful.

Norrington dismissed the soldiers that had accompanied him, then came over to Archie. “You had a pleasant watch, I hope?”

“Oh, very. I had plenty of peace and quiet in which to practice my prayers.” Archie hadn’t meant to sound quite so glib, and smiled quickly to take off the edge.

Both the joke and the smile were noted by Norrington, but no rebuke was delivered. Instead he nodded stiffly and turned around to confer with the third man, who had followed him quite closely, almost as if he were linked to Norrington’s elbow.

This man was quite tall, with a long, thick tail of brown hair hanging behind him and a beard that made it difficult to give him an age. He seemed about Norrington’s age, but the skin around his eyes sagged in weary rings. His eyes themselves were disturbing to look at, flat as a windless sea but with hints of darkness, and Archie could not look at them for long. Of course, he hardly had a chance to given how the man constantly watched Norrington. The stranger was dressed very plainly but not poorly, and he seemed oddly familiar.

Norrington paused to point to Archie. “This is the lieutenant that’s taking Groves’ place,” he said. “Mr. Kennedy, this is Bootstrap Bill Turner.”

“Turner?” It was a common enough name, but it blazed in Archie’s mind. He absently put out a hand; Bootstrap’s grip was firm but inexplicably damp and cold. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever stayed in Dead Man’s Inn?”

The man’s eyes widened as he raised his eyebrows questioning, but they didn’t flicker a bit. “Where is that?”

“It’s—damn Groves, I told him to stop telling that story,” Norrington muttered. Then he recollected himself and darted a lowering look at Archie into the bargain. “Never mind, Bill.”

“Yes, never mind me,” Archie said, anxious to mend things. He did like his post here and his life under Norrington, but that alone couldn’t explain his sudden unease. He was…afraid of this Bill Turner. Something was wrong in the man. “My tongue runs away with me sometimes.”

Bill didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He let go of Archie’s hand when Archie let go of his and stood back, head slightly tilted. “Do you know my son?” he said. “Will?”

“Will…oh, Will Turner is your son?” Now that Archie thought about it, that did explain the haunting sense of familiarity. And it didn’t, because Will had an earthy practicality and a full set of emotions besides, whereas his father wouldn’t have been out of place in a fairy cavalcade. “Vaguely, I suppose. We’ve been introduced.”

“Bill, I need to talk to…” Norrington gently began to turn Bootstrap towards the corner with the table.

The other men in the room looked at Bootstrap with a mixture of fear and pity, but whatever the proportions of those were in each soldier, they all kept their distance. Archie frowned and studied Bill Turner more closely, though he could not rid himself of the feeling that he was looking at a wrecked ship. At first he thought the man might be some poor victim of a bad head wound that Norrington still employed for sentimental reasons, but that theory was gradually dashed. Bill Turner spoke little, but when he did, Norrington leaned forward with an intent face, and Archie could hardly credit a man as efficient as Norrington with taking an idiot seriously. In addition, it had not been the absence of awareness that had bothered Archie in regards to Bootstrap’s eyes, but more…the overabundance of that. The man looked as if he’d seen things no man should ever see.

Something rattled outside. Norrington looked up, but Archie waved a hand. “I’ll see to it, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kennedy,” Norrington said, promptly returning to his talk with Bill.

A quick round about the building found no one, so Archie and the three soldiers he’d taken with him returned to the front. The men went inside, but Archie lingered on the porch for a while. The air was fresher and, he secretly admitted to himself, Bill Turner was not there.

“It’s a fine evening for a fine lad,” someone said.

Archie stepped back, hand going to his sword and mouth open to call, but froze when he felt a prick in the side of his neck. He very carefully turned his head.

A man that was obviously a pirate from the jaunty ostrich feather in his hat to the beaten boots on his feet stood there, sword to Archie’s neck. He swayed to one side, then swung the sword back into its scabbard with a flourish. His smile seemed to tip onto his face like the sun did into the horizon at the end of the day. “Sorry, but I thought I’d save us the trouble of a tussle. It’s not a night for sword-fighting—we’d be liable to wake the dead.”

If he hadn’t been holding out a book stamped with what Archie recognized as Norrington’s seal, Archie would have run him through. But he was, and so instead Archie hesitated long enough to realize exactly who this man must be. “You’re Captain Jack Sparrow.”

“And I like you already, lad, for having the respect to give a man his due title,” Jack grinned. He slowly bent over to lay the book on the ground, then slid it over to Archie. “The good commodore left that behind, and he’ll be wanting it.”

“Then I’ll be sure to return it to him. Though you could do it yourself, if you wanted. I can call for him.” Archie wasn’t so foolish as to pick it up now. “I—”

“Oh, no, let’s not be bothering him. He’s got his duties and I’m certain he’s busy carrying them out right as we speak.” Jack was smaller than Archie had expected, but only in terms of the physical. His presence seemed to fill the whole night, and to warm it as well, Archie suddenly noticed.

He was rather taken aback by that realization, and nearly glanced out to sea before he remembered himself. “I’m sure he’d appreciate a conversation with you. He’s talking to, ah, Bill Turner now—”

“Ah, yes. Talking. Men do that together, of course.” The lightness in Jack’s tone briefly soured. His mouth twisted and he glanced at the door, then shook his head. The gaze he returned to Archie was still too dark to match his smile. “How long have you been at sea, boy?”

“Close to six years now,” Archie replied, a touch bitingly. It was dark, but if he could make out the curve of Jack’s mouth, then Jack could see, if not hear, that Archie’s age was not quite that small.

Jack understood and made a half-bow. “Ah, my apologies then. A man, then, but that’s good. That’s all fine and well…best to be a man at sea, and not a sea in a man.”

That bitterness had sneaked back into Jack’s voice, and it made Archie’s already racing imagination plunge forward into all sorts of wild conjectures. It was whispered that Commodore Norrington had a most irregular relationship with his pirate ally, and certainly Jack Sparrow looked as if he would and could take that euphemism to its extremes, but not so much the Commodore. “Excuse me? Is this a message you want me to relay to Commodore Norrington?”

“Him? Oh, no, he’s heard it before.” The question seemed to surprise Jack and he rocked back on his heels. “No, he’s a solid one. I was referring to my old sailing-mate, Bootstrap Bill. I called him friend once, but he’s taken on too much water. It turns the brain, you know.”

“You mean to say…his wits are…” Archie wasn’t certain as to how to continue. It was a strange idiom spoken by a strange man, and he had his hands full understanding it, let alone speaking in it.

Jack shook his head and began to step back along the porch. “There’s nothing wrong with Bill’s wits, except that they’re ruled by his heart, and his heart’s been swallowed by the ocean. You can love her too much, you know.”

Then he was gone. Archie blinked, then walked rapidly about looking for Jack, but saw no sign of the man. He returned to the porch, thinking over Jack’s words, and nearly tripped over the book. Sighing, he picked it up and went inside.

* * *

“And what did Norrington say?” Horatio asked, interested in spite of himself.

Archie shrugged. “He thanked me, and looked professionally opaque when I related my meeting with Jack Sparrow. Bill seemed somewhat downhearted but defensive, if I was reading that blankness he calls a face correctly. With a father like that, can you blame Will?”

“I suppose not…” Though in Horatio’s opinion, that hardly began to explain things. Will and Bootstrap hadn’t seemed very close when Horatio had seen them together, and it would have been more logical for Will to forsake all that was supernatural in reaction to his father. “Archie?”

“Hmmm?” The fringes of Horatio’s uniform seemed to fascinate Archie.

That in turn was quite distracting, but Horatio persevered. “How did Jack Sparrow strike you? Truly?”

“Interesting.” The word was unusually clipped for Archie. He didn’t look up at Horatio.

The cold seed that had been planted in Horatio that night grew to fill his chest. He tried to reason with himself, reminding himself that in the first place it was a danger they didn’t need hanging over their heads and in the second, he’d always made it clear that he would only let it go as far as he was comfortable. Which hadn’t been very far, though he’d thought Archie had wanted to push the matter.

“Well, then,” Horatio finally managed to say.

“Horatio. This in no way lessens our friendship. I—” Archie exhaled, then looked up at the sky. “The weather may change, but no matter how many clouds are present, the sun will always be there behind them.”

A small smile pulled at Horatio’s mouth. He couldn’t quite let it emerge, but neither could he remain upset at Archie. “And in the meantime, enjoy it while it is out?”

“Of course.” Archie rolled over to give Horatio a bright, open smile. “And besides, I think your sudden interest in Will Turner has to do with something else besides his peculiarities…”

“Archie!”


	6. A Woman’s Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2011.

The sky was a beautiful light blue when Horatio turned his steps homewards for the day: a few shades darker than the scintillating sapphire of noonday, which like so much else about his new post seemed scarcely believable, but still belonging to day and not night. He had been dismissed early, for he had been assigned the night shift and would have to return to the docks well after the darkness had fallen. He meant to go straight back to his lodgings, perhaps review his notes on navigation for the day, and then have a short nap to refresh himself.

A dull schedule, but Horatio was of a conscientious turn, and moreover was still acutely aware of how much he and Archie owed to the Commodore’s favor in overlooking their shady history. He fully intended to prove himself worthy of Norrington’s faith and was horrified at the idea of wasting his new chance. And…

And if he was completely honest with himself, certain recent events had left him…not precisely unnerved, for he still had a skeptical mind towards the superstitions and ghost tales that circulated so widely here, but minded to be on his guard. Everything was not as it appeared.

Still, as Horatio drew up to the split-rail fence that encircled Turner’s small yard, he had to admit that his disquiet also was due to a personal reluctance to find much wrong with his current berth. He liked the commodore a good deal, and he liked the town, which was far quieter and more respectable than gossip had led him to believe. He hadn’t yet had the honor of going out with Norrington on one of the commodore’s pirate-hunting missions, but the commodore had spoken well of him many times now, and he didn’t doubt that once he’d proved himself acclimated to his new surroundings, he would find himself back in action for the Royal Navy.

Then Horatio halted. Up ahead of him on the footpath were two figures. The one on the front step was Turner, but the other figure was distinctly that of a woman. Turner didn’t appear to have any attachments—Horatio flushed slightly, having unintentionally recollected a sharp comment Archie had made on that earlier in the day—but as a man with a solid trade and a handsome face, he certainly didn’t lack for women seeking attachments with _him_. And some of them, frustrated with their lack of headway with Turner. had unfortunately begun to cast an eye on Horatio, much to his embarrassment.

He could go in by the back door, he thought, and he was turning away when something caught his ear. The woman’s voice, raised a little, reproachful and yet affectionate in a way he’d rarely seen Turner allow people: “Now Will, don’t you think you’re being harsh on the man?”

“I’m civil to him when I see them every morning, so I don’t know what you mean,” Will said sharply. It had the sound of an old, well-worn argument, and while Horatio freely admitted he was inexperienced in the ways of polite society, even he knew that he should take that as an affirmance of his plan to detour around the back. But something made him linger, and he heard Will sigh. “It’s not that I want him to go, all right? He’s my father. I…but I went looking for him. Jack and I, soon as I got it out of Jack that the curse might’ve let him live, and believe me, _that_ was hard enough. I don’t know what’s between Jack and my father—but anyway, I went, and all the time he’d been able to see me and he didn’t.”

“He must have his reasons,” replied the woman. “I’m certain he never meant to hurt you.”

“Well, you’d be an expert on such matters.” And Will’s voice had such bitterness in it that in spite of the impropriety, Horatio turned back.

He saw the woman start and lift a hand to her mouth, and then stand so for several uncomfortable moments. Will had moved as well, pushing his head out of the shadow of the eaves, and he looked quite regretful of his words. The man might even have taken them back, save that a passing wagon in the street sent a stone clattering loudly and startled Will into raising his head. He saw Horatio and stiffened; he was embarrassed for a moment and then his face went perfectly blank.

Horatio briefly thought of the back-path, and then he owned up to the impossibility of disguising his presence. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and slowly made his way up to the front door. “Ah—good evening, Will.” His tongue felt awkward in his mouth and he paused to try and compose himself. Then he blurted out the truth. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I had no idea you were receiving—Norrington dismissed us early, as we’re taking the night watch—I only just saw you—”

“Elizabeth Swann,” said the woman, smiling as if Horatio wasn’t babbling arrant nonsense. She extended her hand and pure training bent Horatio into taking it, bowing, and muttering some sort of greeting. “It’s hardly evening yet, I think. I’m pleased to meet you—Lieutenant Hornblower, isn’t it? Will and I have been friends since childhood. He’s mentioned you to me several times.”

“Her father used to be governor here.” Will had relaxed from his Sphinx-like pose when Horatio looked at him, and was now watching them with an air similar to amusement. “He’s retired now to an estate not far from here, but Elizabeth still comes to town to visit her old fianc—”

Elizabeth darted a look at Will. It was exasperated and curious, and altogether much more steely than Horatio would have believed such a slight figure could have produced. The limp fluttering of Elizabeth’s fan and the weak request to come in out of the heat that she produced next were closer to Horatio’s expectations, as was the inevitable way she half-demanded that he assist her up the step.

She was very beautiful besides, and that only compounded Horatio’s usual nervousness around women. He did give her his arm and escorted her inside, and also dimly remembered taking a cup of tea with her and Turner before he finally pleaded his night’s duties and escaped to his room. In his fluster he completely forgot everything that he’d heard.

* * *

A few practice exercises with longitude settled Horatio’s nerves, and after a while he was sufficiently collected to even muster some curiosity about his landlord’s visitor. Miss Swann and Will still were talking below, and once Horatio heard the kettle as Will brewed another pot of tea. A few times voices were raised—generally Miss Swann’s—but not in anger or fear, as far as Horatio could discern. Once they fell into a long silence and Horatio was on the point of going below to see about his dinner when Miss Swann abruptly spoke again. Horatio decided then and there that he’d have no profit in idle musings and bent himself to his studies.

He was so hard at work ignoring the noises below that when Will set down a tray by his arm, he started violently and nearly knocked his mug to the ground. With a muffled curse Horatio snatched at it—Will was quicker and nimbler, and kept it from even spilling a drop.

“I’m sorry,” Horatio said.

“I thought I’d bring it up to you since it’s so late.” Will paused, then set the mug back on the tray. He offered an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean that you’d have to hide up here till Elizabeth went.”

Horatio muttered something about not wanting to interrupt the man, then grimaced and added a hasty thanks for the meal. He cast around helplessly, then busied himself with tidying up his books and pens.

“We were engaged for a little while. You might as well know—if you haven’t already heard it in town, you will sooner or later,” Will said after a moment. He shifted the half-loaf of bread on the tray rather absentmindedly. “It lasted until we both saw that we’re rather better friends. And Elizabeth is still a close friend. You might hear some other opinions of her, and I want you to know that no matter what others say, she has a good heart and a brave one. Braver than those who talk all the time.”

“I generally don’t engage myself in unfruitful pursuits such as listening to the gossip,” Horatio said stiffly. He immediately knew he sounded offended, and what was worse, contemptuous, when it was only that he was still anxious over his earlier faux pas in eavesdropping on the pair. “That is, I wouldn’t—I trust that anyone you care to call a friend would be someone worthy of the name.”

Will looked oddly at Horatio. He began to say something, then caught himself with a slight smile. “I didn’t think I’d made such a favorable impression on you, sir.”

“I didn’t think you considered rank,” Horatio replied. He immediately regretted it and put out his hand towards the other man. “I’m sorry. I spoke hastily, and meant no offense.”

“Well, you are an officer and I’m not,” Will said dryly. He half-turned as if he intended to leave, then stopped and looked back at Horatio. Then he sighed and dropped quietly back to lean against the wall by Horatio’s table. “No, it’s all right. It has to be odd for you, at the very least, seeing so much respect given to a mere civilian. I’m surprised you haven’t asked about it yet.”

Horatio tried to choose his words a little more carefully. “Commodore Norrington has given his orders and he knows his post and its duties better than I.”

“He doesn’t know everything.” Will glanced away, his voice dropping till he almost sounded resentful. Then he heaved back his shoulders in a deep breath; his head rose so Horatio could see the man wore a wistful face. “If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have need of me or my father, or…at any rate, Lieutenant, I don’t mean any offense either. I know very well where I stand with the Navy. All I’m trying to do is lend a hand where I can.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Horatio said. He paused and let Will almost step away, then put his hand out again. “Thank you for the dinner—Will. And I think you can call me Horatio.”

Will hesitated again. Then he smiled—a touch reluctantly, Horatio thought—and withdrew back downstairs, saying something about feeding the donkey as he went. For a moment Horatio considered going after him and trying to pin down precisely what he’d done that had offended the other man so much. But then his better sense recalled him and he simply returned to his studies. He’d blundered about enough for the moment; he could return to the puzzle once he’d had some time to work out an actual method of approach.

* * *

The sun was balancing precariously on the horizon when Horatio finally came down from his room. He meant to speak to Turner before he left for the docks, but the other man was absent both from the living quarters and the forge. Horatio stood in the forge for a few moments while the donkey stared curiously at him, then abruptly turned on his heel and went out, stifling a curse under his breath.

He arrived at the docks in good time, only to find that the small pinnace for which he was supposed to have charge for the night was missing. Of course Horatio promptly set himself to find the senior officer, which happened to be Groves. He found the man deep in conversation with a rather disreputable-looking fellow, and not very pleased to have had that interrupted. In a few curt words, Groves informed Horatio that the pinnace had been moved to an anchorage further down the beach and that Horatio was to join it at its present mooring. He pointed out the path and then turned his back on Horatio.

It was a sharp change from the friendly, albeit teasing manner in which Groves had welcomed Horatio and Archie, and Horatio wished he had time to consult his friend on the matter. Unfortunately Archie had taken the day shift and would be near his lodgings if not there already, and Horatio had no time to waste in going back to town. So, with a last glance at Groves, Horatio set off down the path to the pinnace.

He sighted the pinnace soon enough and judged that the walk would take no more than a half-hour. At least at first, when the path was broad and smooth-worn to dust, but after about ten minutes it began to narrow. It also was rising in inclination, the ground turning stony, and Horatio saw to his dismay that the path was going to take him up and over a small cliff before he would reach the pinnace. He was late now, but his attempt to hurry his pace nearly ended in an embarrassing fall when his boot-heel slipped on a loose chip of rock. He didn’t care to break his leg so he was forced to moderate his speed, and to hope that Groves would remember that no one had warned Horatio of the last-minute change in position.

The last sliver of the sun had slipped into the sea when Horatio finally came down the other side of the cliff. He was near enough now to hear the occasional call of a sailor on the pinnace, and the rest of the path looked relatively level, save for a dip where a stream crossed it.

Bridging the stream was a crude bridge made of stones piled precariously on top of each other. Horatio gingerly tested his weight on the first rock, only to hastily withdraw to the bank as it tilted dangerously. The end of his scabbard banged his calf and he caught the hilt to steady it, then sighed and looked about himself.

It wasn’t a very wide stream, and seemed to narrow even more a few paces inland. Possibly jumping it would be safer. Horatio stepped off the path to gauge the practicality of that idea and immediately tangled with a bush—the flora in the Caribbean alone sometimes tempted him to believe Turner’s wild ghost stories, so much did it seem that branches and vines intentionally sought to snare men. But a few sharp blows with his scabbard saw Horatio freed, and he finally made his way around the bush, only to find that it had obscured his sight and so created the illusion of narrowing banks. In actuality the stream abruptly bulged into a large pool, with water the same dark blue as the uniform that Horatio wore.

He peered cautiously over the edge, then withdrew with a sigh; if the pool was as deep as it seemed, he’d be a fool to try anything else but the bridge. Which, when Horatio glanced at it, looked no sturdier than before. Horatio bit his lip against the sudden up-swelling of irritation within himself. It had been, he sternly reminded himself, a rather good day and there was no need for him to dwell on minor problems, even if they were coming uncommonly thick at the moment.

Then Horatio looked back at the pool. Perhaps he’d heard a sound. He wasn’t conscious of it, and barely realized he was stumbling back as he stared at the woman before him. 

She had come out of nowhere. Her long blond hair tumbled indecorously down her back as she stood at the edge of the pool, her arms bent at the elbow and swaying a little as she did something before herself. A low, indistinct humming accompanied her movements: she was singing very quietly to herself, it appeared. And—and undressing. A vicious cough expelled itself from Horatio’s chest as he watched a delicate lace glove float to the ground. The woman’s shawl soon followed, and her dress was loosening about the shoulders and waist when Horatio finally remembered himself.

He cleared his throat again, then hesitated. When the woman seemed not to mind him, he started to address her and then thought the better of it. He turned to go and then _she_ addressed _him_. “Horatio?”

“Miss Swann,” Horatio said, startled. “Er. I’m terribly sorry—”

She hadn’t turned when she had spoken, but she twisted a little now so that he could see the curve of her cheek, and perhaps a hint of a smile. “I was waiting for you,” she told him, voice rich with amusement. 

And something else, which—Horatio couldn’t quite his finger on. It slipped away from him so quickly, like the wind stealing away something that he had to chase, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he’d taken a step towards the woman. He checked himself, then shook his head. For a moment he’d been horribly, nauseatingly dizzy, as if that damn bout of seasickness that always struck him when fresh out of port had come on.

“Come,” said the woman.

Horatio looked up, blinking hard. He…had forgotten something.

“Hornblower!” snapped another voice.

It was as if Horatio had been slapped. He pulled himself up short, then frowned. He wasn’t certain where that other voice had come from; it had sounded as if it had traveled through a fog. Then there was another sound, a sort of wet rustle, and he knew that had come from behind him. He began to turn, but a sharp movement before him caught his eye.

The woman had whipped around and—and it wasn’t Elizabeth Swann. It wasn’t even—the body was human, to the neck, and then the pretty fair hair all around that—that—that face. That terrifying face, a mealy white like a drowned corpse, and the gaping mouth full of shark’s teeth. Horatio threw up his arm over his eyes, then lashed blindly back as he was seized from behind.

“It’s Will Turner, so—Elizabeth, _now_ —” Will hooked Horatio’s arms firmly behind him and dragged Horatio back onto the path. He grunted as Horatio tripped and almost made them fall, then roughly steadied them. “Elizabeth!”

Horatio looked back at the pool, where Miss Swann—the real one—was advancing on the monster, a lit candle in one hand and a small pouch dangling from the other. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but Miss Swann suddenly threw the pouch in the monster’s face. A fine white dust flew out and the moment it struck the hideous thing, it…it…

It sort of wavered, the way objects would when a mist rose. Then it swayed, first one way and then the other, more and more wildly, and right as Horatio thought it would topple over, a rippling movement passed down through it and it simply vanished.

“Thank God,” Miss Swann said, lowering her arms. She blew out the candle, then turned a concerned expression on Horatio. “Are you all right?”

“I swear, the next I see them,” Will was saying in a dark voice. He still had his hand around Horatio’s arm, but he took it away as Horatio awkwardly brushed at himself. He shook his head, then glowered in the direction of the town. “As if we didn’t tell them it might have gotten away.”

Horatio finally managed a noise beyond a senseless croak. “ _It_?”

Miss Swann and Will both looked at him with the same grave yet faintly curious expression. Then they looked at each other. Eventually Will lifted his hand towards Horatio. “Well, Lieutenant…”

Somehow Horatio knew. He stared at the other man in disbelief, then cut off whatever ridiculous lie Will was about to foist on him with a sharp gesture of his hand. “I saw that. I am sober, in full possession of my senses, and—and I am very sorry if I made light of your stories before. But I had no idea, and had absolutely no reason to believe that I should.”

“He’s a bit quicker than most,” Miss Swann said after a long moment. She was smiling, and it was so unlike that of the monster: that _thing_ had been unearthly in its…its compelling magnetism, and while Miss Swann certainly was beautiful, her smile had more than a little of the common coquette in it. “I thought the idea of telling him stories was to give him a soft entrance, Will?”

A good many odd and seemingly unrelated moments suddenly coalesced into a coherent whole, and Horatio became aware that he’d been…quite unfair to the other man. He flushed, stammered something silly, and then made himself draw in a deep breath. Then he realized he hadn’t even been looking at Will, and turned as the other man irritably spun on his heel.

“Don’t,” said Miss Swann. She drew up by Horatio and laid a hand on his arm when he would have called after the other man. For a moment she watched Will stride down the path back to town, a mixture of regret and frustration in her eyes. Then she sighed and pulled at Horatio’s arm. “It’s not your fault. Will’s had more than one—it’s not been an easy day for him. Now, I would like to see your ship, and I think the time we’ll need to reach it should be just enough for me to tell you about undines.”

* * *

“I’ve read a fairytale or two about them,” Horatio said, tugging uncomfortably at his coat. It was catching him under the arm, but as Miss Swann was holding onto that limb, he couldn’t yank the garment as hard as he needed to without dislodging her. “Supposedly beautiful voices that they use to lure men to their deaths.”

Miss Swann’s brows rose. “ _Supposedly_?”

“I…I, ah, my hearing…” Horatio coughed “…I don’t hear the tones. With music, that is. To me it’s all the same…note, I think you would say.”

“Oh.” The brows fell and Miss Swann stared thoughtfully out at the sea. “That would explain it.”

“But what of you and Will?” Horatio asked, forcing himself to ignore his blush. He hated revealing any sort of weakness, but given the circumstances, he should happily sacrifice a little of his pride. “I know I’ve seen Will singing chanties with the men, and—”

“He does?” A delighted smile graced Miss Swann’s face, making Horatio aware of the fact that he had only temporarily forgotten his bashfulness around women. “Oh, that’s so good to hear. He always seems so bitter these days, and especially with the Navy…but you were asking me a question. The undine didn’t affect either of us because…well, it’s a very long story, but I suppose you’ve seen that with some diseases, if you survive them, you will never suffer them again? We’ve had—an experience with the unnatural before, and since then…”

She fell into silence, her head turning so that she could look out over the sea. Nothing unusual caught Horatio’s eye, but he only had time for the briefest look before Miss Swann turned back to him.

“Anyway, I’m sorry,” she said. “And I’m certain Theodore will be as well, once he hears about what happened. We all thought that it was still on the other side of the island, and it was only an hour or so ago that Will realized it wasn’t, and that it might be where you were headed.”

“But how would he know?” Horatio shook his head to forestall her reply. “No, that is—how would he know where I was going? I didn’t know until I came to the docks.”

Miss Swann bit her lip, looking chagrined. She lifted her chin, then dropped it and touched her temple with one hand. Then she sighed; her hand tightened around Horatio’s arm. “I suppose you should be told. Will—Will’s been keeping an eye on you.” She tipped her head and looked at Horatio sideways, and the effect would have been coy if Horatio hadn’t noticed the carefulness in her eyes. What she saw apparently satisfied her, for she abruptly threw back her shoulders and faced him as a man would have. “However you think of J—of Norrington, he cares very much about his men. He cares enough so that he didn’t want you and Lieutenant Kennedy simply thrown blindly into these sorts of things.”

“He has always struck me as an honorable and compassionate leader,” Horatio said after a moment. He might have said more, and indeed he felt as if he should, but he had never been a well-spoken man and he did not want to misspeak. Or misspeak more than he already might have.

Perhaps not, judging by the way Miss Swann smiled at him. Then she laughed and dropped her head, and took a more affectionate grip on his arm. “Well, at any rate, he asked Will if Will would…look after the two of you. Since none of us could agree on how to raise the subject with you without your laughing in our faces, but it would be madness to let you go out and about without some sort of warning. James of course is too high-ranking to follow you around, and anyway, Will’s of age with you.”

Norrington was James, Horatio remembered after a moment’s thought. He also recollected a half-heard fragment of conversation from the marketplace about a connection between Miss Swann and Norrington, but he’d so determinedly set himself to efface that memory that he could remember none of its content. And that was just as well, he thought as they approached the pinnace, for his commander’s private life should be none of Horatio’s concern.

Except—he slowed, then looked at his companion. Miss Swann was already studying him, and she showed little surprise at his halting but persistent tone. “I’m sorry—I may be forgetting myself,” Horatio said. “But—now that I do know, I wouldn’t want to impose on Mr. Turner anymore—”

“You’re not imposing. He needs a distraction,” Miss Swann snorted. She was looking down the path before them.

“I would think that he would be the one to decide that.” Horatio startled himself a little with the sharpness of his tone, and then was startled afresh to see how deeply Miss Swann was struck. He began to apologize.

She composed herself more quickly and shook her head, smiling prettily. Then she laid her hand briefly on Horatio’s shoulder, adopting a graver and more genuine—to his eye—expression. “No. No. I…” the lines of her mouth moved into a faint, wistful smile “…Will and I have known each other too long, I think sometimes. That was the mistake I made with him before…but at any rate, Lieutenant, please don’t try to run and hide now. You’ll only make Will’s life more difficult, and you should ask him yourself, because he’ll tell you the same. There’s so much you _don’t_ know yet, and that ignorance is very likely to create danger here.”

“All right, I will speak to Will,” Horatio eventually said. He hardly sounded pleased, and that reflected his true feelings. But he could see the sense in Miss Swann’s words. “I’ll need to find and thank him anyway for helping to save me—and thank you as well.”

“That makes the third time,” Miss Swann sighed. “Not that a girl doesn’t appreciate compliments, especially from a handsome man like yourself, but really, there comes a time when one has had more than enough.”

“Then can you tell me why Will feels he’s bound to help, even though it’s clear he doesn’t enjoy it?” Horatio asked. It had sounded less bold in his head.

Miss Swann looked again at him, and through his embarrassment, Horatio thought he glimpsed approval. Then she pressed her lips together. She gazed out at the sea again, irritated and sad at something that wasn’t there.

“He doesn’t mind helping,” she finally replied. “But there are some matters associated with that…both of us have some unpleasant memories of the Navy, for one. Our former brush with the unnatural—it involved some of the same men you work with now, and they were very cruel about their disbelief up until their eyes were opened. Of course they listen now, and I think Will’s more or less forgiven, but—I think it would be nice if he had a better experience with the Navy to set up aside that one.”

As she spoke, Miss Swann looked so meaningfully at Horatio that Horatio couldn’t meet her eyes for more than a few seconds. Of course he immediately realized that she couldn’t be implying too much—Archie might tease, but he would never betray a confidence and he would have told Horatio about a meeting with a woman like Miss Swann—but what she was implying carried enough weight to make him hesitate. Not at the burden, for it was a fair request, but at his ability to take it up. He had no pretensions about his skill at the social graces.

And right now, he decided, was not the time to be asking about Will’s father.

“Will doesn’t have many people to talk to these days,” Miss Swann added after a moment, in a quieter, reflective voice. “The townspeople respect him, but they know the Commodore takes advice from him, and that changes things. And since Theodore was promoted, he hasn’t had _time_ , apparently.” Her voice hardened slightly. “I used to think Captain Groves was a gentleman. Gillette of course has never been very keen on mixing with his ‘lowers.’”

“I like to think I’m a friend.” Then Horatio chuckled. “At least, that I’m trying to be one. I don’t doubt that I’ve been more of a nuisance since my arrival, but…”

“But if you at least try, well, I’ll be thankful. I travel these days and can’t see him as often, but I do want him to be happy.” Miss Swann looked up at Horatio and her face was so hopeful. She lost her charming polish, but gained immeasurably more in simple beauty.

He nodded. She smiled, and then she laughed as someone hailed them: they had arrived at the ship.

There was no more time for conversation after that. Horatio escorted her to a comfortable spot on the beach near the pinnace’s mooring, then sent a man to go into town and find a carriage to take her back to…wherever she was traveling. Then of course he had his duties to attend to, with double the attention since he was so late, and he hardly noticed when it came time to see Miss Swann away.

In fact he only thought of her again late that night, when the pinnace was lazing on her anchor-line and the moon was high in the sky, sending a shimmery light over the waters that reminded Horatio of the undine’s translucent skin. And then he remembered, and he leaned on the rail and thought long and hard.


End file.
